Tipping Point
by Scribblesinink
Summary: Cold, hungry, out of luck and out of funds, Jake faces a hard choice when a stranger in a bar makes him an offer he thinks he should refuse. AU


**Author notes**: Written for LJ's cliche_bingo prompt "Hooker AU". Thanks to Tanaqui for not letting me write Jake'nFreddie-in-drag, but suggesting this instead, and, as always, for betaing!

**Tipping Point**

**By Scribblesinink**

The months after he left Jericho the second time were the longest of Jake's life: he had no money, no place to go, and both Ravenwood and the Feds chasing him across the continent. He discovered that not long after he'd fled San Diego following Freddie's murder Agent Hicks had worked the system and his status had gone from _person of interest_ to _persona non grata_: his pilot's license was revoked on some trump charge; his bank accounts and credit cards frozen; his social security number marked as invalid.

Jake also knew the Feds could've wiped out his existence entirely, if they'd wanted. The fact they hadn't sent him a clear message: _help us, and maybe we'll help you in return._

Soon, he reckoned, he might take them up on their offer, and consequence be damned. Because he was getting tired of running: tired of sleeping under bridges and in doorways after he'd sold the Roadrunner; tired of begging for under-the-table work that never paid enough; tired of shoplifting his next meal when he failed to find even that kind of job.

The first few weeks, it hadn't been quite so bad. By the time the last of the San Diego cash ran out, he'd found work as a ranch hand in west Texas, where his skills on horseback were appreciated. But work had dwindled during the winter, and he'd been told to move on. By then, Hicks had done his thing. If Jake had ever thought he'd had it hard before, he quickly found out how much harder it could be.

And to add insult to injury, sometimes he couldn't even blame Hicks for his troubles, but only sheer dumb bad luck. Like here, in Rochester, New York, where he'd hoped to find work at the marina—maybe with one of the charter companies operating on Lake Ontario. But he was too late: the season was coming to an end. All he'd managed was another wasted afternoon asking for jobs that didn't exist.

Tired, chilled from the wind that howled across the water, bringing cold fall air from Canada, he aimlessly wandered the streets of the lakefront district, hunched deep in his old army jacket. As he passed a bar, he noticed a _Help Wanted_-sign in one of the dirty windows, and wearily made a beeline for the door. But when he asked about the job, the round-bellied bartender blinked as if surprised, and shook his head sadly. "Sorry, pal." He brushed past Jake to walk up to the window and get the sign. "Position's been filled. Just ain't got around to takin' it down yet."

Jake turned on his heel without another word, too beat to even get angry, and headed back out into the cold. It had started to drizzle a little, and he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The sign in the window had given him an idea, though: there were other bars near the marina. Perhaps he'd have more luck elsewhere. So, despite the cold, he went from one gloomy bar to the next, assuring the managers he'd turn his hand to anything if only they'd offer him a job. Despite his perseverance, the gods didn't smile on him: even if they didn't chase him back out right away, nobody had any work to offer him.

It was getting late, and Jake still had no idea where he'd spend the night, by the time he pushed through the door of the eighth—or was it the ninth?—bar to rattle off the same litany he'd uttered so many times he could recite it in his sleep.

And just like so often before, the bartender started shaking his head before Jake had gotten even halfway through his spiel. "Can't help you, buddy. You'd have to talk to the owner, and he won't be in 'till tomorrow."

Jake gave a weary nod of acceptance, his shoulders sagging. He was about to turn away when the barman stopped him. "Hey, why don't you sit down for a sec? Warm up some?" Jake glanced up at him, and he shrugged lightly. "You look about ready to drop flat on your face."

Jake huffed a quick, humorless laugh. It was true; after the cold outside, the heat of the bar was making him dizzy. He pulled himself up on the nearest bar stool and sighed; it was a relief to be off his feet.

"Here, drink up." The bartender set down a glass in front of him and poured a measure of colorless liquid from an unlabeled bottle into it. "Warm up your guts." He shoved the glass in Jake's direction, and grinned. "Don't worry, it's on the house."

For a brief second, Jake considered refusing, pride and wondering what the catch was getting in the way, but then he decided he might as well start accepting charity where he found it. Not like he had much of a choice left; he was down to the last of his cash: a few crumpled bills in his pocket all that was left after he'd finally admitted defeat and sold the Roadrunner.

He drew the glass closer, accepting the drink with a quick nod. The barman gave him another shrug and wandered off to the other end of the bar to make a hushed phone call, leaving Jake alone with his thoughts.

Jake realized his options were getting more limited by the day. If he didn't find a way to get more money soon, he was gonna have to decide between a number of choices that were all hard and unpleasant. He ran them down in his mind.

One: work for Hicks and try to bring Ravenwood down—something that'd likely get him killed the same way they'd murdered Freddie.

Option two: he could take a page out of Jonah Prowse's book, and resort to a life of crime. Not the petty hauling of less than savory goods, like he had done back in the day, but the real stuff: truck hijacking and robbery—which was what had gotten Chris killed and sent Jake running in the first place.

Or, behind door number three: go home. Back to Jericho.

For the tenth time in as many weeks, Jake considered going back, and dismissed the idea right out of hand. He'd tried it, and gotten the door slammed shut in his face for his trouble. Sure, his mom would be happy to see him again, and she'd be ready to take him in and spoil him with pie. But dad....

Jake shook his head and took a sip of his drink, grimacing at the way the raw alcohol burned his throat. No, his dad would demand he grovel and own up to the fact he'd screwed up yet again. He could picture Johnston's expression: the mixture of disappointment and contempt that seemed to have been reserved solely for his eldest son ever since Jake was sixteen and Jonah had given him the Roadrunner. He wasn't about to submit himself to that again.

Deep down, so deep Jake didn't even want to acknowledge it to himself, however, he knew it wasn't pride that kept him from returning. It was shame. If he went home, the full truth might come out. And if his father knew what he'd really been up to all those years.... Learned about those jobs flying 'cargo' to and from Venezuela and Colombia.... Found out about Saffa....

Jake gave a brief snort, audible only to himself. That'd be the ultimate screw-up, result in the final rejection.

As long as he didn't return to Jericho, going home remained an option. A choice he could make. Even if he never dared make it.

The small bell over the doorway of the bar jingled, startling him from his introspection. A gust of wind rustled as someone walked in. Jake glanced briefly over his shoulder at the newcomer. Dark-haired and broad-shouldered, the man wasn't very tall, but he carried himself with the kind of confidence Jake instantly recognized as being military, even though he wore jeans and a leather jacket rather than a uniform.

The guy's gaze swept around the room, landing on Jake for a moment—a ghost of a smile twitched his lips—before he took in the rest of the customers. Then he made his way to the bar. Taking a seat two chairs down from Jake's, he ordered a whiskey. "The good stuff." He looked pointedly at the barman, before he gave a curt nod at the glass in front of Jake. "Not that rotgut."

Jake let out a brief laugh. _Rotgut_ was about as accurate a description as could be; back home, Bailey's would've been ashamed to serve it to its customers, even as a freebie.

The thought of Bailey's made Jake's throat constrict in an unwelcome way, and he tossed the rest of the liquor down. It burned a trail all the way down his gullet. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he coughed, swallowing hard; he noticed the soldier had half-turned on his stool and was watching him with an amused little smirk.

"That bad, huh?"

Jake croaked a "Yeah," and the guy motioned for the bartender to get Jake another glass and fill it from the same bottle as his own.

More charity.

Nevertheless, once the barman was done, Jake raised the glass in salute. "Thanks." He took a sip of the amber liquid, relishing the velvety feel on his tongue, so different from the sharp tang of the moonshine still churning in his belly. He guessed drinking on an empty stomach wasn't the smartest thing to do, but he couldn't bring himself to care much. "Jake," he added after a moment, by way of introduction.

The other man gave him a look. "Edward." He considered his drink a moment before turning toward Jake fully, his gaze raking him up and down. "You don't really strike me as a guy willing to risk his liver with Bo's poison."

Jake gave a rueful huff, but didn't reply. He wasn't sure what the man was aiming at.

"So, let me guess." Undeterred by Jake's silence, Edward cocked his head, and there was that slight smile again. "Down on your luck?"

Jake shrugged. "Guess that's one way to put it."

It was the understatement of the decade. He reckoned he'd been 'down on his luck' for the last six years, and the future didn't look any brighter. He didn't much like the thought, though, so he stared into his drink, not offering up any further explanation.

Edward finished his scotch, and gestured at the bartender for another, before directing the man to refill Jake's glass as well. Jake shifted on his stool, a little uncomfortable, and shook his head. One drink was a friendly gesture; anything more was.... Well, he wasn't quite sure what it was. In any case, he'd had enough; he could already feel the alcohol working on him.

Seeing Jake's refusal, Edward let out a sigh and switched over onto the stool next to Jake's. He twisted around until he could face Jake. "Look, Jake...." He paused, making sure he had Jake's attention. "I believe we can help each other out."

Jake raised an eyebrow, puzzled as to what he meant.

"I have something you need." Edward rested an elbow on the bar, his gaze intent. "And you have something I want."

Jake shook his head, still none the wiser. "I've no idea what—."

Eward pushed up off his stool, tossing his drink back and setting the glass down on the bar's surface. "I'll be blunt: I want you to come with me."

Jake gaped in confusion, and Edward continued, "I'll make it worth your while. And tomorrow, you go your way, and I go mine. Nobody any the wiser." He cocked his head, scanning Jake's face. The earlier amusement had gone; he looked deadly serious. "What do you say? Beats sitting here rotting out your gut, penniless and miserable, doesn't it?"

Once the full meaning of Edward's words had sunk in, Jake's jaw dropped; for a long moment he failed to snap his mouth shut, his mind a turmoil of emotions and thoughts. Part of him thought he should probably be offended, but he didn't have the energy. The humiliation of being... _propositioned_ mingled with the prospect of easy cash, and he didn't know whether to laugh in Edward's face, or say _yes_.

At last he shook his head, noting his voice was rough as he said, "No. Thanks, but no thanks."

Edward held Jake's gaze for another moment, disappointment in his expression. Then he gave a sharp nod. "Okay."

He turned away to pay for the drinks, and a minute later, he'd left the bar. It wasn't until the door had closed on his heels, shutting out the howl of the wind, that Jake noticed the key left on the stool Edward had been sitting on. He stared at it, his mind still whirling.

Despite growing up in rural Kansas, Jake didn't have any strong objections to men having sex with other men. The concept wasn't new, either; he knew it had been going on at Embry-Riddle, where male students outnumbered females five to one, and again in Afghanistan and Iraq. _Don't ask, don't tell_, wasn't that what the army called it?

At least it explained why the guy had come to Rochester, miles from the nearest military base: less chance of running into someone he knew. If his commanders found out, it'd ruin his career.

The key, the name of a by-the-hour motel Jake remembered seeing a little down the road written on the plastic tab, beckoned him silently, glinting dully in the bar's low light. He figured he could do worse: Edward appeared to be fit and healthy, and as a serviceman—an officer, Jake guessed—he'd have every interest in keeping their... encounter... quiet. Nobody need find out, ever.

Jake glanced around, but nobody was paying him any attention; the bartender was busy polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. Jake snatched up the key and stuffed it in his pocket, where it seemed to sit hot and heavy against his thigh.

After another minute, he slipped from his chair and headed out. It had started to rain in earnest, and the wind had picked up strength, hitting him full force. He leaned into it, trying not to think about what it was Edward wanted of him. He focused instead on the gains: a night in a halfway decent bed, money for a proper meal....

Hell, he might even get to buy himself a bus ticket back home.

**Disclaimer**: this story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series _Jericho._ It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.


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